


Make the Best

by dynamicsymmetry



Category: Harsh Realm
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-28
Updated: 2009-12-28
Packaged: 2017-10-05 10:11:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/40565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dynamicsymmetry/pseuds/dynamicsymmetry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's chocolate in the Realm. Too bad there's a shortage of Clue Sticks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make the Best

Sometimes Hobbes gets the distinct feeling that Pinocchio doesn't want him enjoying anything at all.

They get some game, cooked over a fire, and the flesh isn't gamy, is actually close to sweet, and all Mike gives in response to Tom's groans of pleasure is a noncommittal grunt as he chews. They find a spring on a warm day, and Tom strips to the waist and splashes through it with Dexter yapping at his heels, and Mike leans against a tree with his hand on the butt of his gun, glaring at nothing in particular.

It's hard to have fun when you feel resented for doing so. Particularly when fun is hard to come by in the first place. But Tom manages. If nothing else, he's determined.

He had at least been hoping a food cache would lift Mike's spirits a little, put a chink in the stony front he keeps up, but so far no good. Mike looks down at where Tom crouches, rifling through the crate, and _I am unimpressed_ is coming off him in waves.

"Take what we can carry," he says, glancing over his shoulder. "Any more'll slow us down."

"We can carry most of it," Tom says, not quite protesting. "Mostly dried stuff. It's light. If we can fit it in the pack..." He trails off, pushing aside a couple of boxes of dried noodles, and then his tone, or rather, the tone of what he _isn't_ saying, makes Mike look over his shoulder with what might actually be interest.

"What is it?"

"Oh my God." Tom lifts the thick slab covered in foil, sniffs at it. "It's... Jesus Christ, it's chocolate." He has no idea when he last had chocolate. Months. Maybe not since he got into the Realm. He would probably have remembered if he had. He's not even sure if the taste he remembers is accurate, or some invention of his memory and imagination, better than it could ever really be.

Mike's mouth twitches but otherwise he doesn't react. "Pack it," he says. "It's fast calories." But Tom is already digging further down, and then next time he halts the aura of disbelief is even more tangible.

Mike's hand finds the butt of his gun again and he rolls his eyes. "Now what? We can't fucking hang around here, dick."

"Graham crackers," Tom says, in the tone of a pilgrim laying eyes on a piece of the True Cross. "I mean... holy shit, you don't think--" And he's digging even further down, and only a few seconds elapse before he stops again and says "Pinocchio."

"What?" It comes out in a snap; he's impatient and he isn't going to bother hiding it, and in some corner of his mind Tom doesn't blame him. This isn't safe. This isn't a long-abandoned cache; it's recently placed, obviously Republican Guard, and they could come looking for it anytime.

But _this..._

"Marshmallows," he says, turning and lifting the package up. "Pinocchio... it's--"

"_No,_" Mike cuts in, already seeing where this is going. "Abso-fuckin'-lutely not."

"Why not?" Tom's tone is abashed, almost childlike. Mike half expects to see his lower lip quiver.

"Because we're not fucking _boy scouts_," Mike says, clearly exasperated now. And in retrospect, the boy scout image is a little closer to the reality of what Tom is like than he's comfortable with. "You're not gonna get a merit badge, unless it's in annoying the shit outta me. Pack the fucking chocolate and _come on._"

"No." And now the stubbornness comes in. Mike is turning to go when he hears it and looks back, already with a sinking in his stomach that says _you are going to lose this one._ "We get _nothing_ nice, Pinocchio. We're always running, we're always hungry, and I don't complain, but you know what? If I want to make some s'mores I damn well reserve the right to do that."

He's still crouched in front of the cache, clearly trying to look as formidable as possible, and for a moment Mike almost laughs out loud.

Again, his mouth barely twitches at the corner.

"Fine," he says finally. "Just fucking come on before you get us both killed. Over s'mores."

He can see Tom inwardly celebrating the victory, can see it right through his fucking eyes, and as he turns away and starts to head over the rise and down into a stream valley he's again stuck in that strange limbo between punching and laughter.  


* * *

  
He doesn't always let Tom make a fire. It depends.

Fortunately, tonight, he doesn't need to fight him over it. They've gotten far enough away from the cache. They're safely in the middle of pretty much nowhere. It's a cool night anyway, and a little extra warmth isn't something he'll say no to, or at least not very vehemently.

Tom is crouched next to him, frowning with great concentration as he surveys the three packages in front of him. Mike watches him for a a few moments before he actually brings himself to say something.

"So what's the problem, boy scout?"

Tom looks up at him and comes close to looking irritated. "Nothing. I'm just--"

Mike arches an eyebrow, leaned back against the tree with his arms folded across his chest. "You're just what?" In a tone that says _I'm not letting this go, so don't you try to weasel out of it now, you little rodent._

Tom sighs, reaches up and fiddles with one ear, which is, along with its partner, taking on a bit of a flush in the firelight. He mutters something.

"What was that?" Mike, for once in his life, is dripping patience and honest concern.

"I've never actually made these, okay?" Tom huffs and his ears turn an even more violent shade of red. "Not outside of a microwave, anyway. I'm not... I'm not entirely sure where to start."

For a moment Mike only looks at him, feeling and appearing as one who's been handing some kind of marvelous gift that they plan to store in a safe place and bring out on special occasions to set in good light and admire. He reaches forward and tears open the bag of marshmallows, and manages, somehow, to not actually laugh.

"Gimmie that stick over there," he says, pointing. "And remember this as the day that I actually humored you."  


* * *

  
So in the end they plowed through most of all three bags, each ingredient eaten both in proper combination and on its own. Mike had given way to laughter, right around the time Tom had burned his tongue. Tom had said something more obscene than Mike had ever believed he could even imagine and poked at him with a hot stick. Marshmallows would have been actually thrown had they not been in such short supply.

Mike leans back again, nibbling the last bits of blackened marshmallow off the stick he's holding. Tom is slumped next to him, licking his fingers.

Mike glares down at him. "You have to smack like that?"

Tom only grins and tosses Dexter a piece of graham cracker. "I have a sugar high," he says. "I have no _idea_ when I last had a sugar high."

Mike mutters something barely coherent about drugs and boy scouts and poor resistances and goes back to his stick. He probably has one too, if it comes to that, though he feels loggy far more than actually high. Sleepy and content and a little slow.

When it comes right now to it, he probably hasn't eaten this much of _anything_ in months.

"This was a good idea," Tom says, slumping down with their shoulders touching. "I'm glad I had it."

Mike snorts. "I'm glad I _let_ you have it."

Immediately Tom turns his wide and faintly silly grin on him. "Oh, so you _admit_ you're glad. About anything. Color me fucking shocked."

So maybe it's that he wants to legitimately shock him. He's done it before; it's well-established by now that one of the few actual joys in his life anymore comes from finding new and interesting ways to push Tom's buttons. Maybe it's that he actually is high.

Maybe it's that the chocolate had tasted more violently good than he ever would have believed, and there's a large smudge of it on Tom's cheek, close to the corner of his mouth.

So he hovers a little, head turned and his gaze meeting Tom's levelly. At first Tom just stares good-naturedly back, fingers still chocolaty, and then his grin starts to fade, grow less certain. Mike doesn't look away. Through supreme force of will he manages to keep his face stony.

Though, it's not really force of will that makes him lean in suddenly and lick the smudge of chocolate off Tom's cheek. He has no idea what the fuck makes him do that.

And then there's a moment where neither of them move. He tastes chocolate on his tongue, and then under that there's a deeper, earthier taste of dirt and sweat and something that he suspects might be entirely unique to Hobbes. And a part of him that's not quite sane wonders if that taste might be everywhere on his skin.

Then the world snaps back into realtime, and Tom wrenches himself backward with a loud yelp, scrubbing at his cheek like he's been slapped and looking a little bit like he has. Dazed. Maybe close to hurt. Dexter looks up at them and whines.

"What the _fuck_ did you do that for?"

Mike's not sure. He's not sure what he's feeling. Suddenly his stomach is doing odd flips, like the marshmallows and graham crackers and chocolate aren't sitting entirely well. He affects carelessness because it seems safest, and it's the closest thing he has to a default setting. He shrugs.

"Maybe I'm glad I did."

The grin he shoots in Tom's direction is lopsided and feels less sure than he'd like. Yeah. Maybe.

In any case, it's a long time before they find chocolate again.


End file.
